Heroes of War
by ViiraK
Summary: That which concerns the battles fought after the Fall. Johnlock
1. Chapter 1: Construction, Deconstruction

__**Welcome!**

**This story will be multiple chapters even though this seems like a one shot; don't be fooled.**

**There will be slash later on and you might be able to see the beginnings of it in this chapter.**

**This story will follow the aftereffects of the fall, so Sherlock will be back and no, I don't know how i'm to explain how he survived.**

**There is no beta, if you want to, let me know through FF or through Tumblr(my page is StayPuft)**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock but i often imagine what I would do if I did. And I don't own the quotation in the beginning which is from Oedipus Rex**

**Enjoy!**

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><p><em>My destiny, my dark power, what a leap you made!<em>

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><p>The first sensation John H. Watson remembered feeling was pain or, at least, that was the feeling that dominated his entire childhood. His father was to blame for that. John was repeatedly told by the family how good a man his father <em>used <em>to be. That's all he ever heard. 'Oh I wish you could have met him before the war. He was the most charming man. This one time…' It was always the same, only with a different anecdote about his father's 'good days'. It was like they, the whole family, were trying to convince themselves that if they talked about the past enough it would become true in the future. Well, it didn't. And if anyone bothered to ask John what his opinion was he state, without wavering, that his father was anything but a 'good man' or a 'charming man', or a 'funny man'. His father was a horrible man. But no one ever bothered to ask John.

The first emotion that John H. Watson remembered feeling was love. This was due to his mother. If his father was the demon, then his mother was the angel. Whatever amount of pain his father would cause, his mother would make up for it tenfold with love. The family spoke about his mother in the past tense as well. It was always, 'Oh, you should have seen her before she met your father. She was so carefree…' He would always hear how quiet and meek she was now. The family didn't speak too much about the change in his mother and even when they did it would be followed by a story about how 'lovely' father was.

The second emotion that John H. Watson remembered feeling was hate. This was directed to his father who felt the need to drink and hit every living thing. This was directed at his mother who never did anything to try to change their situation. This was directed at his entire family who refused to notice anything that didn't comply with their set beliefs. The true hatred manifested at the world though when Clara was born. He couldn't believe past that date that there was a god because why would a god allow another child to be brought into his household.

The first vow John H. Watson made was to never, ever turn out like his father. But life it cruel, as john found out, and he did, in part, turn out like his father. He abandoned his mother and sister after he graduated high school, and just like his old man, he joined the army at the age of 18. But, realizing the path he was one, he became the one thing his father wasn't, a healer. If was going to join the army, he was going to at least save people as well.

The only noises John H. Watson remembers hearing is gun fire…

…and screams.

The smell John H. Watson remembers smelling is smoke.

The emotion he can remember now is fear.

When he came back from the war, none of these changed…

…Until he met Sherlock Holmes.

Well, it wasn't so much that things changed. He still felt the anger, the hatred, the fear and he could still smell the smoke, and hear the gun fire, but next to Sherlock Holmes, it wasn't all that strange. With Sherlock, is wasn't strange to view modern London as a battlefield, because that's what it was (the only John will give Mycroft credit for getting right about him).

So when Sherlock asked him that first time to a crime scene he didn't hesitate. He didn't want to end up settling like his mother or becoming angry and vengeful against humanity like his father or a drinker like his sister. When his first saw the lady in pink lying on the ground he felt sadden that she lost her life, but excited as well, knowing, that there was still a battle to be fought.

First battle: The Lady in Pink- won.

After the end of the case John felt fear. He was afraid that this was a onetime deal that after the case was solved, he would be back alone. But apparently, as John would learn, Sherlock isn't so easily shaken off of someone once he gets attached, like a barnacle.

The next case involved banks, codes, and a Chinese gang. John felt like he was in a really bad action movie starring Van Diesel or something. It didn't seem ridiculous when he was actively chasing these gangs around London but he couldn't help but laugh as he typed it up on his blog.

Second battle: The Blind Banker-won.

The third case started with a bang. The news coverage he saw of their flat caused his mind to think about the houses in Afghanistan that were decimated by the bombs. He could still see the bodies of the families, or what was left of them, on the ground. And for that moment, he wasn't sitting on Sarah's uncomfortable couch, but he standing watching as the bombs sailed to the houses that only housed innocent families and the only thing he could think about was the same thing happening to Sherlock. He raced out of Sarah's house, because Sarah's house wasn't part of the war, but Sherlock and 221b, was. All he could picture was Sherlock laying somewhere under the rubble and debris, waiting for John to save him and John would because one never leaves a man behind. And this was war.

This case ended with John having a bomb strapped to his chest (which he had to admit was a new experience), standing next to a pool with a madman raving about his consulting criminal business. John didn't hesitate to sacrifice himself if it meant Sherlock could get away, because John was the one with the bomb strapped to his chest, and in that moment, John was the enemy and the danger. But Sherlock didn't leave, because this was war and no man is left behind.

Third battle: The Great Game-won?

The next two cases involved the two things that had surrounded John's entire life: love and terror. The love, for Sherlock, came in the form of Irene Adler(or as she it forever referred to as The Woman). John doubts that he will ever meet another woman like Irene Adler she, probably, is the only person in the world that had a chance of keeping up with Sherlock. John saw the twisted love forming between the two since they first met and that is why he lied to Sherlock and it is the only time he will ever lie to Sherlock(and that Sherlock will believe the lie).

The next case led to a terror John hadn't felt since the war. It wasn't due to believing in the hound either. When he saw Sherlock by the fireplace, truly afraid of the hound and truly believing that it was real, that's when John felt true terror. Terror due to the fear that Sherlock was losing his mind, the one weapon that kept the war going, the one thing that made Sherlock unique, and the one thing that made Sherlock stranger than himself. John literally couldn't imagine his life without Sherlock because without Sherlock he probably wouldn't still be alive. John couldn't have been happier when he thought he saw the hound in the lab, because it meant that Sherlock wasn't crazy. And if Sherlock was indeed going insane, then at least John was going insane with him.

Fourth battle: The Scandal in Belgravia- won.

Fifth battle: The Hounds of Baskerville- won.

And those all led to this moment.

The moment where John is standing on an ordinary London street with his phone (it could have been Sherlock's phone for all John knew since they were always switching their phones due to Sherlock's need for thievery) pressed to his ear.

The moment where John is staring up at Sherlock as Sherlock makes his way to the edge of the building. From this point of view, John can make out that Sherlock was wearing one of his shirts (John really liked that shirt too; it seemed that the fate of all his shirts were to be stretched as Sherlock slowly stole all his clothes).

The moment where Sherlock is telling him that everything was a lie. John doesn't believe it for a second, because it's all real, that's what makes it so fantastic. The battles, the war, it's all real; it's what keeps John sane. London is a battle field. So, John doesn't hesitate to deny Sherlock's words, because it has to be real.

"No one could be that clever."

"You could."

Because Sherlock is and will always be the cleverest person in the room which is why John is his best friend. If the cleverest person in the room believes that John is useful, then it has to be true. If the cleverest person in the room believes there is nothing wrong with John, then it must be true.

Then Sherlock jumps.

And John feels his world crash around him. The carefully built world of battles, wars, and friends collapses around him in a matter of seconds. John doesn't even feel in the biker hit him because all he cares about is Sherlock. Sherlock who is dying on the side walk as all the normal, dull people surround him and John can only think about how annoyed Sherlock would be.

'John there's too much stupid around me. Make them go away.'

John reaches Sherlock. People are pulling him back, telling him not to touch the body, but John is not his father. John is healer. John is not his mother. He will not give up on life. John is not his sister. He will not pretend that nothing is wrong. So John pushes through the people enough to reach Sherlock, because he won't give up.

John grabs Sherlock's wrist.

There is no pulse.

John now knows the feeling of being punched in the chest. The air leaves him ('Breathing? Breathing is dull') and the emotions take its place. He is choking on emotion and it always seemed so ridiculous is books, but it's real now. He holds onto Sherlock until someone pulls him away.

John sees Sherlock being turned and sees as his wild hair drags through the blood on the sidewalk. Whatever strength John had was gone now and he feels himself fall towards the ground. John looks at Sherlock's face one last time and he still looks alive. John can almost believe he is, but then he is being wheeled away on a gurney.

John doesn't follow, because he knows that Sherlock won't survive.

Sherlock is the cleverest person in the room, he knows how to kill himself.

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><p><strong>Hope you liked it! And remember to REVIEW!<strong>


	2. Chapter 2: Batman and Robin

__**Woot! Another chapter, I am on fire!**

**This is what I've been writing instead of working on my paper for Art History...**

**I will be introducing Sherlock in the next chapter, so don't worry he will be in the story soon enough and not just in John's head. **

**Disclaimer: same as last chapter. I don't own Sherlock and I don't own the lyrics at the beginning of the chapter which is by Band of Horses, the funeral**

**Enjoy!**

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><p><em>I'm coming up only to hold you under<em>

_And coming up only to show you wrong_

_And to know you is hard; we wonder…_

_To know you all wrong; we warn_

_Really too late to call, _

_So we wait for; morning to wake you_

_Is all we got_

_To know me as hardly golden_

_Is to know me all wrong, the warn_

_At every occasion, I'll be ready for the funeral_

_At every occasion, once more, it's called the funeral_

_At every occasion, oh, I'm ready for the funeral_

_At every occasion, oh, one billion day funeral_

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><p>John was propped up against a pole near where Sherlock fell when the police showed up. He eyes flickered over to the cop cars and saw a silver head man step out the first car followed by a woman. It was Lestrade and Donovan, if John had any energy left he would have sighed. Lestrade spotted John sitting on the ground and headed towards him, thinking that Sherlock would be around here somewhere, since John was.<p>

"John? Why are you here? You are still a wanted man," Lestrade stood in front of John and was slightly put off by the fact that John wasn't moving; he didn't even seem to be breathing. "I can't keep the police away from you and Sherlock if show _up_ at crime scenes."

Lestrade glanced over at the blood pooled on the ground a feet from him.

"What happened here anyways? I was told someone jumped but if you're here then it must be a murder. Sherlock wouldn't show up to a simple jumping." Lestrade glanced around him as he spoke as if expecting Sherlock to jump out of nowhere, flinging insults and then he realized after a few minutes that John wasn't answering any of his questions. John wasn't even looking at him, he was staring at floor behind him.

"Donovan was right," John barely whispered it and Lestrade had to strain to even hear the words. He then thought he heard him wrong.

"What?"

John cleared his throat and spoke again, still not looking at Lestrade. "Donovan was right."

"I heard my name." the woman in question said as she came walking over to where John was sitting and Lestrade was standing. She seemed equally confused as to why John was here, but the confusion covered over by anger which filled her face whenever Sherlock came to mind; and Sherlock always came to mind when one mentioned John.

"You where right," he sounded broken.

Whatever Donovan was going to say caught in her throat when John looked up from the ground and at her. His eyes were red, but it seemed as if all the tears had already dried. His eyes were empty, his face was empty, and it seemed as if all life had left the man.

"We would all be standing around a body and Sherlock would be the one who put it there."

Lestrade gave a little choked sound. "Sherlock is responsible for a murder?" he gestured to the blood behind him. "This murder!"

Donovan looked shocked and pleased.

John shook his head. He pointed towards the blood.

"That's his blood," John spoke with no inflection. "He called me, said he was fake." His voice wavered now. "Told me it was all an illusion—I watched him jump."

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><p>John didn't go to the funeral.<p>

He did visit the grave the day after, and the day after that, and the day after that…

It took him two weeks of living in a hotel until he mustered up enough courage to go into 221b. He timed it so Ms. Hudson wouldn't be there. It was something he needed to do alone. He half expected to see Sherlock sitting in his customary seat when he walked in. There was no one else in the room. John stood in the doorway for an hour until he took a step into the room. He walked over to Sherlock's chair and collapsed into it and cried.

Somewhere between John trying to curl up on the chair and breaking down completely, he realized that this is not how one would act if they just lost only a best friend. That thought made him cry harder since he was only just now realizing what he had lost before he even knew he had it.

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><p>Two weeks later…<p>

John sat at the table with his (or Sherlock's, everything was Sherlock's as well) laptop. It sat open, but not turned on. John hadn't turned on the laptop since the day of the Fall (which is what John was calling it in his head because it certainly wasn't a suicide). He was afraid of seeing the comments posted on his blog; he didn't want to know how many people believed Sherlock was a fake.

He was about to turn on the laptop when his phone vibrated from its place on the table next to him. The screen lit up with a picture of the British flag with the words 'Mycroft' at the top with an angry face in parenthesizes next to it. John had realized a day after the Fall that he did, indeed, have Sherlock's phone and Sherlock had had his.

The laptop sat forgotten as John answered the call and allowed for Mycroft to come for a visit.

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><p>Two weeks later…<p>

John had met with Mycroft, since that phone call, once a week without fail. John believed Mycroft was only visiting him to make sure he wasn't going to kill himself. John didn't bother telling him that the thought hadn't even crossed him mind, because Sherlock wasn't dead and John wasn't going to go somewhere that Sherlock couldn't. John was willing to wait.

He had finally turned on the computer and the first thing he did was check his blog. The hit counter was still stuck at 1895 and John felt like he could identify with the counter: never changing and stuck in the past where the better times were. This caused John to rethink his mental stability.

This thought was abandoned when he logged onto Sherlock's website. It was full of mail; in the thousands. John clicked on the first one which was dated right after the Fall.

'I don't believe the newspapers. You saved my daughter from a madman, you kept our family together. We will always believe.'

'You solved the case of my missing rabbit Mr. Holmes. Mommy says you're a fake, but I don't believe it.'

'I just wanted to say thank you for all you did for me and getting my prized horse back. I will always believe.'

'Thank you.'

'I will always believe.'

'RIP. We believe.'

John ended up scrolling through all one thousand of these emails and for the first time in a month, he smiled. John then went back through and replied to each and every one of them. As John got to the last email a new one popped up on the screen on his own blog. He clicked on it.

'Hello, my name is Jessica. I know that Mr. Holmes is dead, but I was wondering if you are still continuing the business because my little sister is missing and the police aren't doing anything. Please help me Mr. Watson.'

John paused and reread the email multiple times. His first instinct was to say 'no' because he wasn't the one who solved the cases, it was Sherlock. He was the muscle, the back-up, the side kick. Sherlock was the genius he was the Batman in this scenario and John was the Robin. Robin never acted without Batman.

'John all that matters is the work, the case.'

'I'm married to my work.'

'My mind, it's all I've got. It's what I rely on John. Without, I'm normal…like you or Anderson. Oh god, that's a terrifying thought.'

'I _need_ a case!'

Sherlock was defined by his cases. He was married to his cases and when a best friend passes it's the living friend's job to make sure the spouse was okay. The cases were Sherlock's spouse and John wasn't going to abandon anything, not again. He wasn't his mother. He wouldn't give up.

He responded with a 'yes'.

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><p>Two months later…<p>

That ended up being first of the many cases John would start. He wasn't like Sherlock though. It took him time, a long time, to solve these cases, but he never gave up. He studied everything. He couldn't just walk in a room and know a person's life story but if he looked long enough things would pop out at him.

He spent his free just watching people. He started studying because people were relying on him and Sherlock wouldn't tolerate an idiot taking over his work. So John studied. He went through the many boxes of paper Sherlock had sitting throughout the flat. Many of them had little notes about habits and things to look for.

And unlike Sherlock, John did ask Mycroft for help.

John still wrote up his cases. The website still listed Sherlock Holmes as the only consulting detective; John just added his name underneath as an assistant. It was around the time when John H. Watson was becoming fairly popular on the internet world when Lestrade finally visited the flat.

"I heard that you're a consulting detective now. I have a case."


	3. Chapter 3: Personal Jesus

__**Another Chapter! Yay!**

**The next installment in the series...**

**Disclaimer: I do not own nothing related to Sherlock, Google Earth, or Lana Del Rey-video games**

**Oh, here's a few notes in case the set up is confusing**

****_Blah- _John's thoughts or emphasized words

'Blah'- Sherlock's voice in John's head/ any voice that is speaking in the past

"Blah"- talking in the present

**That about covers it. On with the show!**

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><p><em>It's you, it's you, it's all for you<em>

_Everything I do_

_I tell you all the time_

_Heaven is place on Earth where you_

_Tell me all the things you want to do_

_It's better than I ever even knew_

_They say that the world was built for two_

_Only worth living if somebody is loving you…_

_Baby, now you do_

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><p>It was the most awkward moment in John's life. He had been going over how strange it would be going to a crime scene without Sherlock next to him, but nothing prepared him for the stares that followed him as he stepped past the yellow tape. As soon as he pulled the yellow tape up and walked under every eye locked onto his form and John stopped. He felt the need to do some sort of movement, a wave or a nod, maybe just smile, but his muscles weren't listening to his brain.<p>

"Watson?" Lestrade called from inside the one story house and John thanked any god that was listening. He practically ran to the front door and into the house. Before he reached it he felt a shiver go up his spine. It was as if someone was watching him, someone with malicious intent. He whipped around, but it was hard to decipher who would cause such a reaction since everyone was already watching him. He shrugged it off and went into the house.

That's when the situation got even more awkward because Donovan and Anderson were standing next to Lestrade inside the house. John hadn't spoken to Donovan since the Fall; he frankly despised her but felt it was a better course of action to not speak to her at all then to start a row with her.

"Yes," John cleared his throat. "I'm here. What have we got?" He asked as he riffled through his pockets and pulled out a small notebook and a pen. He didn't have a mind palace like Sherlock and therefore, like normal human beings, he had to write stuff down to remember it.

Lestrade either didn't notice the tension in the room or was deciding to ignore it because he began to list facts as if there wasn't anything wrong with the situation at hand. "Her name is Mimi Phan. She is twenty years old going by her license and was attending a small university in Cardiff. So far, we have been unable to reach the family; would you like to see her now?"

John finished writing down the basic facts and nodded. He followed Lestrade through the living room, then the kitchen, took a right down a hallway, and was led to a door which went down to the basement of the house. They went down a set of wooden steps and John could see the glow of police fluorescent lights come into view as he descended.

He body was nailed to the wall in a crucifix fashion opposite to the stairs. Though, unlike a normal crucifixion, a nail had been driven through her forehead as well to keep her head propped up. The reason was clear once John saw the face, which had been skinned, so the under layer of muscle was only thing that made up her face. The rest of her skin had been left on her body revealing that, most likely, the skin on her face had been white and flawless as the rest of her. Her eyes were a deep blue and stared wide, forward. She had on, what was most likely her best dress. It was a deep purple made of silk and fell to the floor with simple waves. He nailed feet were covered with black, strappy heels. The clothes didn't have a touch of dirt or blood on them. The only places she was bleeding from where her hands, feet, and forehead, where the nails had been driven in. The rest of the room was clean.

John took a moment, feeling the sadness of seeing yet another life taken at such a young age wash over him. He could hear Lestrade suck in a breath and let it out through his clenched teeth. John then stepped forward and began walking around the crime scene, studying the girl, and writing notes and thoughts that he would later go back over. He studied her for a good ten minutes before he spoke up. He would have studied her longer but he could feel the stares of Donovan, Anderson, and Lestrade at his back and it was annoying because he could hear them thinking. He now understood Sherlock that much better.

He turned around to face the only other three people in the room, but never once did he look at Donovan. His eyes flickered between Lestrade and Anderson. He knew that Anderson was right on board with Donovan when they trying to arrest Sherlock, but he didn't come and gloat about Sherlock's arrest like Donovan did, so in John's eyes, he was better.

"I would like you to take as many pictures as you can from every angle possible and then send them to me back at the flat. I need to study them for a while before I can make any serious conclusions," John stated while looking at Lestrade. Lestrade seemed to be surprised at this, like he almost expected John to be some reincarnation of Sherlock and just start spouting facts off left and right along with veiled insults to their intelligence.

"Can you tell us anything?" Anderson asked with exasperation and annoyance in his voice. He seemed to suspect the same thing Lestrade did. John almost smiled at Anderson's comment. _I can always trust him to be a dick. At least he's consistent._

"The killer had planned this out for a long time, mostly like months, because this set up would have taken a few hours to stage it the way it is," John gestured to the girl behind him as he spoke. Lestrade nodded and gave John a small smile; it seemed to be derived from pity.

"Thanks, John and we will get those pictures to you as soon as possible."

John walked away from the crime scene with a small limp.

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><p>A day later…<p>

John had been staring at the photos for hours.

They were all hanging above the empty wall space above the couch. All angles were messed together like some sort of gruesome collage. John stood staring at them, his eyes flicking to every picture, trying to decipher exactly what he was looking for. He closed his eyes and emptied his mind of all the facts he already knew.

When it comes to deduction the first step is to never assume, but to gather data.

'Go on John, what do you notice?'

"We start off with what we know. We observe," John began speaking aloud in the empty flat, but it seemed as if he was talking to someone tangible in the room. "The person is a woman, young, and thin."

'Good John. What else?'

"She has been placed in a crucifix fashion on a wall. She is wearing a dress, silk, purple, and is clean. She had heels on her feet which are also clean. Her hair is styled and clean as well. The only parts that have blood are those with nails driven through them: the palms, the feet, and the forehead. Her face has been skinned, but nothing else was. There are no other relics, objects, or stagings in the rest of the room."

'Only come to conclusions once all the data has been gathered. Start with the simplest conclusions first and the complex ones will follow.'

The next step is to take the facts, and from these facts, infer what they could mean.

"She is thin and the rest of her skin is perfect most likely meaning she was conscious of her looks. She had been placed in a crucifix fashion meaning the killer is religious. Her dress adds to her need to look good, but it is clean meaning it was placed on her body after the actual murder took place; so it was staged. The shoes were also part of staging of the killer as well as the hair. The killer obviously cleaned the body except the areas around the nails, so the killer wanted special attention to been driven to those areas, adding to the religious implications. Her face has been skinned, which would normally imply that the killer wanted to hide her identity, but her finger pads are still intact and you found her license easily enough, so that wasn't the reason. So that remains to be a mystery. The rest of the room is untouched, meaning all the attention is to be paid to the girl. This murder would have taken time and planning, so the killer had been studying the girl for a while and had a long time with her alone to set this up so it was planned not a crime of passion. So I doubt the killer knew her personally."

'Brilliant John! No, really…great job. You did however, miss everything important, but…'

John's voice trailed off into the empty room as well as the voice of Sherlock which had been running like a commentary in his head. Despite himself, John smiled a bit; he was getting better at this. He now realized why Sherlock had talked aloud to the skull; John was contemplating getting one himself.

He walked over to one of the tall windows that were in the flat. It was one of his favorite features of the place. The sun was setting and people littered the ground below. Some were couples, some were families, and some were alone. John felt that shiver again, like someone was watching him. Maybe it was just his imagination; maybe he wanted someone to be watching him.

He sighed.

John looked at the clock and realized that he had lost a whole day, it was already 6 and he hadn't eaten since the morning. He grabbed his jacket off the seat next to him and walked with a slight limp out the front door. First the time in months John decided to go out to eat instead of holing up in his flat.

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><p>The Next Day…<p>

John stood in Lestrade's office looking out the window down to the streets below, watching the people walk to a fro with importance and a sense of destination. He saw a taxi stop and a man step out and for a moment, John stopped breathing. He told himself that the reaction was ridiculous, but for a second John thought that he saw Sherlock step out of that cab, but it was just a man with black, wild hair. The man turned and John caught a glimpse of his eyes as he looked up towards the building. John let out a breath and closed his eyes; the eyes were wrong, it wasn't Sherlock. His melancholy was interrupted when Lestrade came into his office carrying a file.

"Here," Lestrade dropped the file on his desk as he walked around it and sat down. "This is the report, in full, of the crucifix girl from a couple days ago. I hope that it will be of help."

John turned and gave Lestrade a small smile. "Thanks, you have really been helpful." John let the many implications of the sentence hang in the air for Lestrade to figure out. He stepped up to the desk and picked the file up. "I'll call you within the next day or so with any more additional information I can find from these papers."

Lestrade waved his hand absentmindedly in the air. "Don't rush, you're only helping us. It's our job to stay up the long nights trying to figure out who the murder is. Don't push yourself too hard." He leaned back in chair and John took it to mean that his presence was no longer needed.

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><p>Two days later…<p>

The flat was the definition of organized chaos.

The photo collage of the crucifix girl was still plastered over the far wall. The couch that had once been under the photos was pushed all the way to the right, under the far window. The ground that was once occupied by the couch was filled with papers; laid out in patterns only discernable if one was looking at it through Google Earth. The patterns of these papers stretched across half of the apartment floor.

'There's always a reason John and usually it's most obvious.'

John sat in the middle of these papers. His frustration was so palpable that the 'married ones' next door knew that John was frustrated. He hadn't bothered to change this morning, so he wore an old pair of gray sweatpants that he's had since high school and his most comfortable black and white stripped long sleeve shirt. His light brown hair, which hadn't seen a brush in a couple days, stuck up in ways that said 'fuck you' to gravity. It didn't help that every few minutes John would run his hands through it.

'There _has _to be a connection John!'

"There isn't any _bloody_ motivation for her to be murdered!" John yelled out to no one which he began during a couple hours ago. Ms. Hudson, who checked on him the first time he yelled out, quickly learned that she should just stay away when he was in this mood. "What am I not _seeing?_!"

'You see everything John, you just don't _observe_.'

His phone began to ring. John leaped up, riffled through several newspapers on the desk next to him, until he reached the phone.

"Hello?" John said it a little rushed; he was hoping for some sort of distraction from his task.

"John," it was Lestrade. "Our guys in the lab finished going over the, the…whatever they're called. You know what? It doesn't matter. The thing is we know where she was killed. I'm sending you the address."

"Great, I'll be there as quickly as possible," John hung up the phone, slipped on an old pair of converse that had seen better days, and went out the front door completely forgetting that he wasn't that well dressed for meeting the police and a potential killing floor.

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><p>John gave the cabbie some money and went into the apartment complex. It was a small place, not very expensive looking, he followed the directions Lestrade gave him and managed to find his way to the swimming pool fairly quickly. He opened the door and stopped dead in his tracks.<p>

It wasn't that there was a gruesome, bloody murder scene. It wasn't that there were no police officers(or Lestrade) present. It wasn't because the pool gave off a chlorinated glow that only apartment swimming pools were capable of. It's what wasn't there. It's what John didn't see. He didn't see himself standing next to one of the changing curtains with a bomb strapped to his chest. He didn't see Sherlock whip around and stare at him with the most human express of fear on his face. He didn't hear Moriarty's voice filter in from the opposite door. The scene was wrong.

This was the pool, the same pool where Carl Powers died all those years ago, the same pool where John was dragged to and was made to wear a bomb strapped to a vest. John was frozen, seeing scenes pass in front of his eyes that had already happened.

John took a shaky step forward, then another as he made his way to where he remembered standing all those months ago. He moved slightly to the side and stood where he remembered Sherlock standing, right next to him, the gun pointed at the bomb vest. John could remember the fear and the terror that accompanied those last for minutes, but he also remembered the happiness. The happiness that he had led a fulfilling life and had lived long enough to meet Sherlock Holmes. And now he was standing next to him, ready to die alongside of him. John was ready to die that day because he would be dying with Sherlock and that was all that mattered.

Now he stood in the same spot alone.

Sherlock had left him. He had gone where John couldn't follow.

John felt the same constricting feeling his chest that had plagued him when he watched Sherlock fall from the building to the ground below. _He's actually gone_. _I'm all that's left. It's no longer a duo…I'm half of a whole that will never again exist together._

Tears began falling on the ground next to John's feet.

A red dot appeared on the ground next to John's feet.

Something rammed into John's side sending him into the pool.

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><p><strong>Ho! I am a terrible person ending it there(took a page out of Moffat and Gatiss' book )<strong>

**Maybe if you REVIEWED I would update the next chapter quicker. :-) Hint, hint**


	4. Chapter 4:Two Halves of a Whole

__**Hello all!**

**The next chapter, it's a little shorter than the rest but it is pretty dense, so I hope you can forgive me.**

**Disclaimer: Sherlock, own, I do not. I also do not own the lyrics in the beginning which are from Mumford and Sons- Sigh no more**

**Enjoy reading!**

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><p><em>Love will not betray you, dismay or enslave you,<em>

_It will set you free_

_Be more like the man you were made to be._

_There is a design,_

_An alignment to cry,_

_Of my heart to see,_

_The beauty of love as it was made to be_

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><p>John hit the water and the first thing he thought was <em>holy shit, this water is cold<em>. It wasn't the most eloquent of thoughts one could have right after having a mental breakdown and then being bodily thrown into a swimming pool, but it was the best John could come up with and at least it was accurate. He could faintly hear what seemed to be a gunshot above him, but the noise was muffled from the ten feet of water he was currently under. John then realized that he was sinking awfully fast and came to the conclusion that whatever had caused to fall into the pool was still attached. He didn't open his eyes but he felt what seemed to be the body of another human being, most likely male; several things occurred to John at this moment.

One, the person attached to him wasn't moving.

Two, he hit the bottom of the pool.

Three, he really needed to breathe.

John wrapped his arms what he thinks is the persons upper torso, placed his feet on the bottom of the pool, and pushed off bringing him and his companion to the surface fairly quickly. His head broke the surface and he gasped in a much needed lung full of air. John opened his eyes and realized that the whole place was filled with some sort of black smoke; it didn't seem to impair his breathing only his site. He swam blindly for the edge of the pool, reached it, and flung himself and his companion out of the water. John rolled over onto his back and tried to get his breathing back to normal. The person next to him began coughing and gasping for the air the same as John. John could hear the man roll over to his side and groan.

"What. The. Fuck?" John really wasn't at his most eloquent today, but it did sum up his current feelings. The man next to him chuckled. John, who up to this point had his eyes closed, opened them and tried to make out the person next to him. He couldn't see much with the smoke, only an outline of a tall, thin man curled up on his side facing away from John.

The man rolled over and John caught glimpse of blue before his brain decided to shut down.

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><p>John woke up to the feeling of being extremely uncomfortable. He moved slightly to the side and his back groaned in protest causing John to groan aloud with it. He kept his eyes shut which he hopped would keep the pain at bay. <em>If I can't see it then it won't hurt as bad<em>. He tried rolling to his other side and promptly fell of whatever he was laying on and onto an unforgiving ground. He groaned again and opened his eyes.

He was eye level with carpet. He recognized this carpet. This was the carpet of his flat. He somehow ended up on the couch and fell off onto the floor of his own flat. He lifted his head up little more and was rewarded with seeing pictures of a dead girl nailed to a wall. _Ah, the pictures of the crime scene. I never moved those did I?_ He then realized he was cold. _My clothes are still wet…_

_How the hell did I get back home?_

John didn't realize he had asked that out loud as well until someone answered him.

"You've been on your own for a while, John. I was hoping that your deductive skills had improved enough to answer that question," a deep, cocky, melodic voice filtered in through the kitchen. John looked up so fast he was sure that it caused whiplash. He stared at the man standing with his arms crossed in the kitchen. John continued to stare at the man, neurons in his brain firing, but making no connection. John began to get to his feet, swayed, and began slowly making his way to the other man. He feared if he moved to fast it would all disappear. He reached the man and lifted his hand up.

He touched the other man's face…

Nothing changed, the man was still there.

The man cocked an eyebrow up.

John chuckled, and then chuckled again. And then began to laugh uncontrollably. He bent over his knees, trying to get some much needed air into lungs and he was vaguely aware of something wet rolling down his face, but his hysterical laughter still continued. John's laughter changed into gasps as he realized his was now crying, bawling, to be more exact.

The other man reached out a hand and touched John's shoulder. "John?" the man sounded quite concerned for John. As soon as the hand touched him, John, quick as lightning, straighten his body, reeled back his right hand, and socked the other man as hard as he could. The other man hit the ground with a dull 'thud' and a groan in pain.

"You! You mother- I-I can't, it's just-," John failed with words as bent back over his knees then decided that fighting gravity was too much work and sat down on the ground, tears still falling down his face. "You were-I saw…"

The other man sat up, a hand resting against his bleeding lip, and eyes focused on John sitting across from him on the ground. "I know. I know John." The other man moved himself closer to John to where their knees were almost touching. He cautiously placed a hand on John's knee. "I tried telling you it was all a magic trick."

John looked up with tear filled eyes at the man sitting in front of him. His hair was still as wild, if not more, than John remembered it being. Tuffs of the dark, brown hair fell into his face, onto the left side more than the right. His blue sometimes green eyes shown with the same intensity but was filled with a sense of guilt that John hadn't seen before. His cheekbones were still the same, sitting high on his face, and his lips still held the perfect cupid bow shape and were curved into a frown.

"Sherlock?" It was more than a name when John whispered it.

The lips curved into a smile. "Yes, I thought that it was pretty obvious by now that I am Sherlock, but your deductive skills were always lacking."

John gave a watery smile back.

_Batman and Robin once again._

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><p><strong>Hope you enjoyed the chapter(finally got Sherlock into the story)<strong>

__**Review please! I'll give all cookies if you do :-)**


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